


Bad Ideas

by pagination



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Duncan the rat, Humor, M/M, Tumblr Fic, birthday fic for whiskyrunner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months too late, Barsad discovers John Blake (1) has been making friends with rats;  and (2) is utterly mad.</p><p>It’s a learning moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskyrunner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/gifts).



> Like so many bad ideas, this one started with alcohol and insomnia. And whiskyrunner having a list of things that would be cool birthday presents. And an adorable rat. 
> 
> Happy birthday, whisky! Thank you for all the fic! May you eventually give us many, many more!
> 
>  
> 
> _Note: No betas were harmed in the making of this fic._

Three months too late, Barsad discovers John Blake has (1) been making friends with rats, and; (2) is utterly mad.

It’s a learning moment. 

“This one is named Duncan, and he’s my baby,” John informs, holding a ball of hair to his face. It’s the size of a child’s head, and it takes Barsad almost an entire minute to realize that the reason he isn’t seeing any ears or nose or eyes is because what he’s actually looking at is a giant, fuzzy rat ass. “Do you want to kiss him?”

“No.”

“You’re withholding again,” John says sadly.

John keeps saying this to him. ‘Withholding.’ Withholding what, Barsad would like to know. He’d be happy to withhold his company, food, air, _life itself_ —

“You need a pet,” John decides, against all common sense and reason. “Maybe a puppy. A puppy chihuahua.”

“Rats eat men alive on the battlefield,” Barsad tells him. “I have watched the wounded screaming while the vermin scramble into their gaping bellies to eat the entrails spilling out through their fingers.”

“Who’s a widdle sweetie pie?” John coos at the rat. For a second Barsad thinks seriously about punching him in the throat, but there’s a gleam in John’s eye that tells him that he’s expecting it, and really, Barsad has too much pride for this.

Instead, he folds his arms and looks aloof. He’s good at aloof. 

John is none too clean—spelunking in the sewers of Gotham can do that to even the most fastidious of vigilantes—but there’s a tiny clear patch in the grime near his mouth. Now that Barsad’s eyes have adjusted to the gloom, he can see the tiny pink hand splayed on John’s chin, and the tinier pink tongue busily washing his cheek.

Not that Barsad’s a squeamish man, especially, but he grimaces in disgust. Whatever John is covered in, it smells truly revolting. Also: rat.

“I thought I’d go with rats instead of bats,” John says. “They’re related, and they’re everywhere. Anybody who lives in Gotham knows about the killer rats. And symbolism, right? There’s symbolism?”

“Rats are vermin. They carry disease.”

“People are scared of them.”

“There can be good eating on a rat.”

The rat squeaks. John turns and hunches his shoulder, shielding the rodent with a suspicious glower. “Don’t eat my rat.”

“I’ve already had my vermin for the day,” Barsad informs loftily. He had a Double, fries, and a diet Coke at an In-N-Out Burger, but he feels no urge to be more specific. 

“Don’t eat any rats,” John orders. “No rats. Not now, not ever. Fuck. This is my life now, where I have to tell my sidekick not to eat goddamn rats.”

Barsad tries to count to ten. He makes it to three. “I am not your sidekick,” he says through his teeth.

“I could be Ratman,” John says brightly. “Like, a low-rent, low-budget version of Batman. Ghetto vigilante. What do you think?”

"An excellent idea,” Barsad congratulates, with careful self-control.

“Then again, the rat motif is kind of tough to get on a costume,” John muses, not at all like an escaped mental patient Bane has inexplicably imprinted on like a massive, homicidal duckling. “Hold Duncan for me. I want to show you my sketches. You’ll love him when you get to know him. Here, just—“

His mouth open to object, Barsad abruptly finds himself with a handful of—  with an elbowful of—  with a shoulder weighed down by rat. He slowly turns his head. Beady black eyes stare at him. The beast—it really is an enormous, _gargantuan_ rat—is mottled brown around its eyes, with evil, pink ears like saucers and an evil, pink nose that twitches inquisitively at him.

“Don’t hurt him,” John says. “I’ll be right back. Just a second, I promise.”

Barsad holds his breath. He has slaughtered men across five continents. He has brought down nations. He is the feared right hand of Bane, lord of the League of Shadows. 

The rat leans towards him, whiskers brushing his cheek. 

“John,” Barsad snaps, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched . . . but John is gone.

Of course he’s gone. The useless _kooneh sag._ Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, _insane—_

The rat sniffs him.

He swallows. Hard. A little paw reaches for his chin. 

“If you touch me,” he hisses, “I will rip your head off and grind your bones. I will strip the skin from your carcass and wear it as a hat. I will—“

The rat stares at him; its sclera, he notes distantly, are shades of blue. 

It squeaks conversationally. Then it licks his cheek. 

Barsad narrows his eyes.

 

 

When John returns, freshly bathed and changed into something that isn’t septic chic, he finds Barsad sitting cross-legged in the middle of training room, looking simultaneously martyred and charmed. Duncan has wrapped himself around Barsad’s throat like a furry scarf and is busy grooming his ear. It’s cute.

John’s been trying to get better at this sneaking around like a ninja shit that Bane’s all into, but he’s got a long way to go. Barsad makes him about two seconds in. It’s impressive how fast the guy goes from being _Softie Charmed by Wee Animal_ to _Terrorist Mastermind with Balls of C4 and a Detonator up his Ass_. The incredulous half-smile Barsad was sporting disappears faster than John can blink, which frankly? is kind of a relief. It looked scared to be on Barsad’s face to begin with; the scowl that replaces it is a better choice for everyone concerned. 

Barsad plucks Duncan off to thrust him at John. His expression of distaste isn’t fooling anyone. Duncan licks frantically at what bits of Barsad’s skin he can reach, his legs paddling furiously as he dangles.

The doleful chirp he gives when he lands on John’s arm is adorable. So’s Barsad’s glare. 

“That was not ‘a second,’” Barsad accuses.

“I took a shower,” John says. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I stopped smelling like sewage.”

Duncan’s squirming to get onto the floor, so John puts him down. Duncan immediately makes a bee-line for Barsad, who does something ridiculously acrobatic and absolutely over-the-top to avoid him. It’s _fucking_ _hilarious._ John has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. 

“Where is Bane?” Barsad demands in outrage from the ceiling, while Duncan wobbles back on his haunches to stare up at him, perplexed.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. He found some body hair this morning, and it upset him. Get down here.”

“No.”

“He won’t be back for hours. He went off to, I don’t know, set fire to his chest or do some manscaping or something. We have the cave all to ourselves. No interruptions. Just us.”

Barsad just glowers down at him. Duncan cheeps.

“Is it the rat that’s bothering you?” John demands. “Here, hold on.“ He scoops Duncan up and deposits him in the shoebox full of newspaper sitting in the corner. The other rats peer sleepily up at him when he opens the lid and drops Duncan down on them like a furry asteroid. They’re not thrilled. There’s a lot of squeaking before John can slam the lid shut. The last thing he needs is for Barsad to—

“Are there _more_ rats?” Barsad demands sharply.

“No?” John tries. “Maybe. One or two.”

Barsad narrows his eyes.

“Or four. Five, if you count Duncan.”

“Five rats,” Barsad says flatly.

“Five adorable, friendly, intelligent—“

“ _Rats_.”

He’s fixated or something. John tries to nudge his priorities back on track by hooking his finger in his pants and dragging them down over his hipbone. “It doesn’t matter. They’re in their box now. Come down.”

“No.”

“Come on,” John says coaxingly, pulling his waistband even lower. “Please? I have something for you. Something sexy.” He tries lowering his lashes to peer up at Barsad through them. 

Barsad’s eyes narrow even further. He exudes suspicion.

“Something really sexy?” John perseveres, in the face of irrational opposition. “In my pants?”

“No.”

“Please? I can’t kiss you up there.”

Barsad, the irritating fuck, just looks smug. John sighs and gives up on the seductive twink routine. As with most of Bane’s romantic advice, it’s proving to be a total dud. He has to stretch up onto his toes to grab Barsad by the collar and reel him down. He feels ridiculous. “A Spiderman kiss? Seriously?”

“Who?” Barsad demands, immediately paranoid. His voice rises. “You will not start making friends with spiders. There will be no spiders.”

“Jesus fuck. I’m Kirsten Dunst,” John sighs, and shuts him up. 

With tongue.

 

 

 


End file.
